


Unless I Be Relieved By Prayer

by thesnadger



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ford has issues of his own, Gen, Post-Finale, Sea Grunks, Stan has abandonment issues, like six pages of suffering and then they hug, somehow it all works out, they both have the communication skills of a particularly stubborn brick wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 12:51:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: A reoccurring dream of Stan’s weighs on him. Things come to a head one evening on the Stan-O-War II.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinesinthewoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinesinthewoods/gifts).



> For the Fluffstravaganza to support the ACLU! Thanks to Scribefindegil for betaing!

Ford walked through the kitchen and dining area of the cabin, descending the stairs. He passed the bedroom and slipped into what Stan liked to call his “nerd cave,” the little closet of a room that he'd re-purposed into a study for himself.

 _Well,_ he thought, tossing his coat aside. _That was certainly a disaster._

He wasn't really mad about the damage...trying to haul the scream-snake up by hand rather than using the pulley had been a foolish mistake on Stan's part, but if Ford was being honest he knew it was the type of foolishness that both of them were guilty of from time to time. True, he was upset at the damage it had dealt to the equipment he'd had on deck after it had struggled its way out of Stan's arms, flopping around in a panic before finally pitching itself back overboard. But it was nothing dire. Nothing that put the Stan-O-War in danger of sinking, certainly, nor anything he couldn't rebuild.

It was silly to squabble over something so petty, and he wished that they hadn't.

But it could be very frustrating, the way that Stan seemed almost pathologically unable to admit to a mistake. The second the danger had passed, he's started with the excuses, coming up with reasons the scream-snake's minor rampage hadn't been his fault or why it wasn't worth worrying about. He'd even had the gall to say that the 5-D echo sounder that had most likely been broken beyond repair was too noisy anyway and they were better off with it half-smashed. It was as if his brother had spent so much time lying and conning and evading authority figures with legitimate grievances against him that wriggling his way out of responsibility was just second nature to him now, even with Ford.

Perhaps _especially_ with Ford.

He removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes. He hated when they fought. It still happened from time to time, of course. Two stubborn, slightly reckless men sharing a very cramped living space for months on end are going to get on each other's nerves now and then. But that didn't stop the self-recrimination.

He'd read for a while. Give himself a moment to cool his head...then he'd go back and talk to Stan. This wouldn't sink them. They'd be all right.

 

**Two weeks earlier**

**\---**

“ _I should have known....”_

_Stan hung his head, unable to look Ford in the eye. Pieces of broken machinery were scattered around him in the dark._

“ _I should have known this would happen...that you'd find a way to screw everything up again.” Ford gazed at him contemptuously, eyes invisible behind the bright glare coming off his glasses. “You ruin everything you touch. I thought, maybe this time will be different! Maybe he's learned something over the years! Ha! What a joke. You never learn anything, do you?”_

_Stan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. All the excuses he'd marshaled died on his lips. He knew there was no one to blame. Everything that had happened...everything that was coming, all of it was his fault and his alone. There was no point in trying to hide from it. He opened his mouth again—this time to apologize, to beg, grovel even—but nothing came out of him other than a strangled breath._

“ _What a fool I was. I should have never asked you to come with me.” Ford looked back at him and shook his head. “Stay out of my life, Stanley.”_

_He turned towards a distant door, the only source of light in the blackness of this place and began walking towards it. Stan finally managed to find his voice. It was weak and hoarse, but he shouted with everything he had._

“ _I'm sorry!” He cried, “Ford, I'm sorry! I didn't mean for this to happen!”_

_Ford didn't turn or respond. His silhouette grew smaller and smaller against the light from the doorway. Stan wanted to get up and run after him, but he couldn't move—couldn't seem to pull his legs from their position kneeling on the ground._

“ _Come back!” He screamed, his voice echoing back at him “Please! Don't leave me here...don't leave me...”_

_Ford closed the door behind him. With a click, the world was plunged back into darkness._

“ _...Alone...”_

_Something in the shadows around him moved. It spread across his body, growing over his mouth and stifling his voice._

Stan couldn't move. He couldn't breathe...he...he...

The feeling of something settling on his arm snapped his whole body into action. He shot up, a strangled cry escaping from him. It was light again, but he still couldn't see...

“Stanley? It's all right. You're safe. You were just dreaming....”

Ford's voice. He'd come back? No...wait...wait.

Stan fumbled for his glasses...he needed to see. After patting fruitlessly around him for a moment, he felt someone tug them gently from his breast pocket and pass them into his hands. He put them on.

He was sitting on one of the padded benches in a small but cozy dining area. He waited for his heart to settle from the tarantella it had been dancing into a more reserved foxtrot. Reality asserted itself, and he could have wept with joy knowing that it wasn't real. It hadn't happened...once again the dream had just been a dream, the product of an afternoon nap. He hadn't ruined his last chance at happiness. For however long it lasted, he was still on the Stan-O-War.

“Are you all right?” Ford asked. At some point while Stan was still panicking, he'd sat down beside him, his hand a reassuring pressure on his shoulder.

“M'fine.” Stan managed to get out. He rolled his shoulders. His neck still hurt from the whiplash of bolting out of sleep. Ford must have misinterpreted the gesture as him trying to shake the hand off, because he let go. Stan briefly wanted to tell him not to, to beg him to keep holding on.

“Just a bad dream...” Stan said.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Stan's shoulders stiffened and he stared hard at the opposite wall, afraid if he so much as made eye contact Ford would somehow be able to intuit the details of his nightmare. He turned a little bit to the side for good measure, trying to come up with some excuse for staying silent.

Ford's hand rested on his back again, and Stan found himself glancing back at Ford despite himself, startled by the sudden contact.

“There's no need to be embarrassed, Stan.” Ford smiled. “You've been there after my nightmares often enough. You know I'd be the _last_ person in this dimension to make fun of anyone for being shaken by a dream.” He squeezed Stan's shoulder, frowning slightly. “Was it about Bill? ...Was he going to hurt the kids again?” He paused. “Or was it something else?”

Stan looked at his brother. The man sitting next to him really looked so little like the Ford in his dream. His face was softer. Older. He was looking at Stan with such a kind expression. Nothing like the withering look on that other face...that look that could make you feel like nothing.

At the same time...

“Yeah.” Stan took a breath. “It was about Bill.”

Ford nodded sympathetically. “Do you want to call Dipper and Mabel? See for yourself that they're all right?”

“Nah.” Stan shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

“Don't need to bother them with this.” Stan took a deep breath and let it out. “It was just a dream...just a dumb dream.”

 

**The present**

**\---**

Ford turned on the small metal percolator pot and let it run, stepping out on deck. Coffee was as good a peace offering as any. Maybe they could talk about the phantom submarines that were reportedly cropping up in these waters...Stan was always up for a good ghost story.

The cold air hit his lungs with a force that made him briefly nostalgic for the ice caves of Dimension 74. He and Stan had moved from arctic waters to a somewhat warmer climate recently, but it was still awfully cold, especially at night. Ford was quite glad for the sweaters Mabel regularly sent them.

He found Stan around the aft. He was leaning over the railing, smoke trailing from a cigar in his hand. Apparently hearing Ford's approach, he straightened, surreptitiously wiping at his face. It was a troublingly familiar gesture.

“Are you all right?” Ford blurted out.

“M'fine.” Stan said. “Just smoke in my eyes.”

In the back of his mind, Ford reflected on how often Stan seemed to be his own worst enemy...if he hadn't said that, Ford might have thought it was all his imagination. But the denial confirmed it—Stan had come out here to cry, and Ford had intruded on it. He stood back, running over the argument that had occurred that evening in his mind. Could he have said something in his anger that had injured Stan more deeply than he'd thought? Had he called him an idiot for trying to haul up the scream-snake barehanded? Words like that slipped out of him so easily when he was angry, but he was starting to learn just how damaging they could be to Stan, especially coming from him.

Nothing came to mind. Not that that necessarily meant anything—it seemed to Ford that the number of times he'd upset someone he was truly trying to insult were entirely dwarfed by the number of people he'd wounded with an offhanded remark.

“There something you want?” Stan asked, turning to look back at him.

Oh. That's right, he was still standing a few feet away from his brother, staring at the back of his head. That was...that was probably something he should do something about. Ford approached Stan and found a spot of railing near him. It was easier to talk to each other when they were looking out at sea. Something was always calming about the waves.

“If you've got something you came out here to say.” Stan said. “Just say it.”

“...I made coffee?” Ford tried.

That had, in fact, been what he'd come out to say. But he had a feeling it wasn't what his brother was getting at. He felt as if he'd been cast in a play without auditioning, only to find it was opening night and everyone knew the script except him. And now Stan was looking at him as if, instead of delivering Prospero's final monologue, he had asked what was going on and how he had gotten onstage.

“Just say it, Ford.” he said tiredly. “Rip the band aid off.”

 _Rip the-?_ Oh...Ford suspected he knew now. _Stan wanted an_ apology. That was usually part of the ritual in these situations, wasn't it? True, it was one both of them typically skipped. It was more common for one to offer the other a cup of something, or help with a chore or project...gestures that stood in for a verbal apology. But given how far Stanley had once gone for a thank you, it probably ought to have occurred to Ford how much a few words might mean to him.

“Well, all right...I'm sorry.” he said.

Stan looked at him expectantly. “...And?”

“...And...what?” Ford frowned. Irritation mingled with the concern and confusion already swirling in him. What else did his brother want from him? Was he meant to guess?

“Will you just say it, Ford?” Stan snapped, the anger in his voice so sudden and extreme that Ford froze, reflexively positioning himself an arm's length away. “Say you finally wised up. That you realized what a mistake it was bringing your screw-up brother along for your big, important research trip. Just tell me that you're turning the boat around so you can put me back on land.”

Ford struggled to process the words being flung at him, while Stan continued, tossing the butt of the cigar overboard.

“It's not gonna be a surprise. Everyone knew something like this would happen eventually. Sooner or later you'd get sick of me and tell me to take a hike. Well, fine. Fine. Go ahead and tell me to beat it. Just go ahead. Never mind that I practically saved the whole universe, I'll always be just a burden as far as you're concerned--”

“ _Stanley!”_ Ford snapped, grabbing his brother by the shoulders, as if he could still whatever thoughts had been tormenting him just by holding him physically in place. “You are defending yourself from attacks that _aren't there._ ”

Stan closed his mouth as soon as Ford touched him, startled into silence.

“I don't want you to leave. Why would I ever? I can't imagine where you got this—” _stupid-no-idiotic-no_ “—ridiculous idea from, but—”

“You can't, huh?” He was glaring, trying to put up a front of anger. But Ford could see his mouth wavering. He could see the tears threatening to well up again in his eyes. Ford half expected him to pull away, but he didn't, though Ford felt a tremor going through him.

“Is this because of the echo sounder? I don't care about that...the darn thing was broken half the time anyway...”

“So if it had been something more important...” Stan began.

“That wasn't my point!” Ford said.

Stan didn't speak for a while. When he did speak again, he was startlingly quiet. “...We both know it's just a matter of time. You've got your work out here studying anomalies. You don't want me holding you back.”

Ford let Stan go—less as a deliberate gesture, more because the strength seemed to have suddenly gone out of his hands.

“Stan...” he said softly. “You're the reason I'm here.”

Stan was quiet for a moment, seeming to digest this. “So...you feel like you owe me something. 'Cause I brought you back....”

“I don't mean that.” Ford shook his head. “I don't mean in this dimension...although that's also true. You're the reason I'm out here, now.” He gestured vaguely outward. To the deck and the waters beyond. “For goodness sakes, look at the name on the boat! If you weren't out here, I wouldn't be either.”

Stan frowned. “Wait...you mean...you don't _want_ to be out here? This is just for me?”

“Sweet Moses, Stanley. You truly do have a talent for taking everything in the worst way possible.” He sighed and leaned back against the railing. “Of course I want to be out here. It's been a dream come true. These past months...I wouldn't trade them for anything. But it would be meaningless to be out here alone.” He shrugged. “I'm sure if I were, I could still take some solace in my work. That's always been a source of comfort and purpose to me through my worse days. But it would be an opiate. Nothing more.”

Stan stared at him, looking guarded and confused. Ford's words seemed to have robbed him of his bluster, but left him drained. He did his best to gather his thoughts.

“When I asked you to come with me, I knew you would give me a second chance. Not because I thought I deserved one. But because I know deep down, you're like me. For all we act like jaded old men neither of us can let go of our dreams.”

He brought a hand reflexively to a spot on the left side of his chest, where he used to keep a photograph of himself and Stan as children. After months at sea, he'd finally managed to put it in a frame where it sat now—safely hanging on the wall in a corner of the cabin's tiny kitchen. For the first time in almost forty years, it wasn't so important to always have it on his person.

“...But that doesn't mean I didn't consider the possibility that you wouldn't.” Ford continued. “That it didn't occur to me _you_ might be the one telling _me_ to take a hike after everything that had happened. That you'd decided you were better off without me. I wouldn't have blamed you.”

“Hey...don't say that—” Stan began.

Ford kept talking. If he stopped to accept Stan's comfort or even point out the hypocrisy of his brother telling him not to suggest he was unwanted now he'd lose his train of thought and never be able to put it into words again.

“Do you know what my plan was? What I would have done if you'd said no?”

“What?” Stan asked. “I don't know, what was your plan?”

“I didn't have one.” Ford smiled weakly and shrugged. “I really didn't. I know that I was...territorial about the Shack for a while. But that place hasn't been my home in decades. It certainly didn't feel like home when I came back. I don't belong there. I don't belong in Gravity Falls. Heck, I probably don't have any place in this dimens—”

“ _Don't_ say that.” Stan said, a worried edge to his voice. “This is your home. You belong here, not out there—”

“I don't mean that this dimension _can't_ be my home again...” Ford said gently.  “Even the Mystery Shack...in the months that we stayed there with Soos and his _abuela,_ it started to feel like a true home. But that wasn't because you'd taken down any of the knick knacks or...creative interpretations of what constitutes a genuinely anomalous creature...” he added with a sardonic look. “It wasn't because you made it more like the house I'd lived in before...it was because of you, and the kids. You made it a place where I could belong.”

Stan looked down at the deck, folding his arms. “You'd have fit in in Gravity Falls without me...everyone always loves you.”

“Really, Stan?” Ford raised an eyebrow. “Did you forget our whole childhood that quickly?”

Stan fixed his gaze harder on the deck, looking embarrassed.

“I'm sure I would have gotten by.  Surviving, if not truly living, is something I've gotten good at, after all. And in a sense you're right...I'm usually able to exchange my inventions for something. Money. Room and board. Respect and admiration. But that isn't the same thing as having a friend...as having someone who truly cares.”

Stan didn't look up, even when Ford put a hand on his shoulder. Instead he brought a hand up to cover his mouth, keeping his gaze fixed on the deck. His shoulders were shaking....Ford tried pulling him closer and he allowed it, pressing his face into Ford's sweater where the stifled noises coming out of him wouldn't be quite so loud. Ford wrapped his arms around his brother and squeezed.

“I wouldn't _want_ to be out here without you, Stan. If you'd said no...I'd have gotten by. Maybe I'd have shown up on Fiddleford's doorstep like a sad, lost puppy. Hoping to rekindle that _other_ relationship I'd nearly wrecked beyond repair. ...But even then...Fiddleford is a true friend, but he isn't my brother. He isn't _you._ ”

“M'sorry...” Stan muttered, voice still muffled against Ford's chest. “M'so sorry...”

“What in blazes for?” Ford asked.

“I don't know...” he whimpered. “I don't know...I just...I screw everything up.”

Ford sighed. “You're the only one who thinks that.”

Stan made a _pfft_ sort of noise that Ford assumed was meant to communicate disbelief.

“Then you're the only one on this boat who does.” Ford insisted. “And I'm not ever going to tell you to leave it. This is where _you_ belong.”

Stan pulled his face back enough to wipe his eyes, and Ford shifted to accommodate his movements. Rather than returning to his previous pose, Stan reached his arms around Ford and squeezed tightly enough to steal his breath and put a pressure on his ribs that was uncomfortable, but not unpleasant. Almost like the tight squeeze of the healing cocoons in Dimension 119 once you got used to them.

“...Didn't I tell you before, you—” _knucklehead? Yes...that word still felt safe_ “—you knucklehead? I didn't want just 'someone' out here with me. I wanted it to be you.”

“Yeah...” Stan said softly. “You did say that.”

Ford held on until Stan's grip loosened, and his shuddering subsided.

“C'mon. The coffee's probably cooked into black sludge by now, but I can make another pot.” Ford said, turning him towards the door of the cabin.

Stan laughed, a forceful, barking noise. “I thought you liked it that way. Black sludge that's been simmering in the pot for hours.”

“ _One time_ I drank it that way in front of you, and you're never going to let me live it down....”

“Darn right.” Stan muttered. “If it wasn't for me you'd be drinking tar-coffee and still living off those nutrient pills.”

“Probably.” Ford said. “...Probably. Come on, it's cold out here.”


End file.
